


People with Seasonal Allergies May Feel Symptoms

by Birdbitch



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Old marrieds and their best friend, Sex Pollen, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 14:53:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19428247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdbitch/pseuds/Birdbitch
Summary: Dick gets into a little trouble in the field while Bruce is stuck in the cave. Clark brings him home.





	People with Seasonal Allergies May Feel Symptoms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [st00pz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/st00pz/gifts).



> Written at length ago for St00pz. Thought I had posted but I guess not?  
> Everyone has at least 5 gray hairs (even Dick). Sex pollen, but consent is still rather enthusiastic.

When Bruce turns away from the screen which had been broadcasting Dick during their video call, it had been dead air for at least five minutes, blue screen indicating that Dick is offline and has been for since giving Bruce some final reassurances that he had the mission covered. But Bruce feels almost repulsively restless and wants to call him back right away despite knowing that Dick is probably out for the night, working. Knows that Dick is already out, in fact, because it’s what Dick said he was going to do. It’s why they’ve been having to deal with rushed video conferences and whispered phone conversations for the past two weeks. The mission, as always, is most important, and Dick knows this and Bruce knows this, and yet it hasn’t made it any easier. Poison Ivy’s been peddling some new drug in Metropolis. People are getting sick. Dick needs to find out what’s going on and stop it, and Bruce has to let him.

But it’s been two weeks, and Bruce is insufferable at home. He would have gone himself if his left leg wasn’t in a cast (though he still might have, if it were twenty years ago and he wasn’t nearing fifty) but here he is, stuck in the cave monitoring Damian’s patrol from afar and with no way of knowing how Dick’s doing. 

He wonders if it’s how Dick has felt any time he’s gone off planet or dimension hopping with the League. 

“I think I’ve found a promising lead,” Dick had said. “I should be able to come home soon.”

“Be careful,” Bruce had answered. He didn’t say “I love you,” hoping instead that it was implied by his concern for Dick’s safety. Even though they used a secured connection, there was still an inherent risk associated with saying anything identifying over the comms. Now, he’s regretting not saying anything in the event of the worst. 

He wants to even call Damian back and call it a night, just to have a sense of control over everything at home since he can’t interfere in Metropolis. He doesn’t do it, thinks better of it. Drinks stale coffee and frowns at the mug while looking back, for a moment, at the smaller screen, before hobbling on his good leg and crutches towards some of the older case files, before he went digital, to see if he can find anything that would be useful for handling Ivy this time. If everyone’s being honest, despite Bruce’s inclination towards new tech (Wayne Enterprises spends more money on R & D than anyone except maybe LexCorp), he only started typing the files and digitalizing them when Tim pushed him into it, eager to have his own copies to reference. There’s familiarity in the paper though, enough that makes him reluctant to rely on the computer entirely (he wouldn’t, anyway, knowing the harm of relying too much on electricity or electronics). Some of these ones haven’t been scanned, and he thinks that maybe during his recuperation period he might get to it; it’s not like, he thinks, he can do much else.

When Damian gets back to the cave, it’s close to midnight and not only has Bruce’s anxiousness not abated, but he hasn’t found much of anything useful besides some reminiscing over the past. “How’d it go?” he asks, and Damian glares at him.

“Might have been better if I hadn’t had Drake trailing me like I’m some kid,” he answers. There’s not much fight behind it, though.

“You are a kid,” Bruce answers. 

“As you and Grayson and everyone like to remind me so frequently.” He kicks off his shoes, notices the cat he brought home a month ago slinking down the stairs as though it heard his cycle pull in, and picks it up. “When will he be back?”

“He says tonight.”

“Liar.”

“Take it up with him.”

It makes Damian frown, and he looks almost like a mirror showing Bruce what he himself must have looked like any time he disagreed with his own father. “Do I have to go straight to bed?”

“Yes.”

“I still have homework.”

“You did it before you left.”

“I have more homework.”

“For which class?”

Damian looks away, caught in the lie. He ignores Bruce and goes to change before carrying his cat up the stairs with him. It’s almost a disappointment; Bruce had expected more of a fight. After Damian goes to bed, he doesn’t have much else to look forward to--Dick is away, Tim doesn’t need to check in with him anymore, and Jason is--well. He never used to have a problem with loneliness before. He’s sure. But as it stands, he expects the night to look like a long (boring) one spent pouring over the reported crimes and unusual incidents in Metropolis, trying to find any threads to link them like Dick hadn’t already done that, when there’s the sound of someone coming through the cave’s vehicle entrance.

Even injured, Bruce isn’t defenseless, but there’s the instinctual panic response anyway, neurons screaming “intruder” even as he prepares to act. Calmly. No use acting reactively. He just needs to let Damian know--

It’s Clark. Which still leaves Bruce on guard, because he’s carrying Dick (or, rather, Superman is carrying Nightwing, but in the cave identities are blurred more than usual). Bruce’s reaction is first jealous possessiveness; Dick has his face pressed against Clark’s neck, is squirming against his grip, making needy noises from the back of his throat.”What did she do?” he asks, moving forward, hating the crutches, hating that he wasn’t there, hating that it’s Clark carrying Dick. It’s less a question than a statement--he knows. It’s Ivy. Of course she did something. Given her history of poisons and the noises that Dick is making, Bruce could make an educated guess as to exactly what it was. Dick turns his head towards Bruce and groans, throwing an arm over his face.

“I had it handled,” he says.

“I need some convincing,” Bruce answers. “Clark.”

He’s about to say something when whatever it is comes over Dick again, and his head rolls to the side, revealing the vulnerable column of his neck. “I heard trouble,” Clark says. “He’s been in and out of it--I figured it might be safer to bring him here than back to his safe house.” Rather than deal with it himself, Clark means, and for clearly obvious reasons when Dick gives Bruce heavy-lidded bedroom eyes.

“Follow me,” Bruce says, not responding to Dick and trying (failing) to ignore him completely, to avoid focusing on the way Dick looks like he’s seeking friction against Clark’s abs, squirming again. “It was Ivy?”

“Yes,” Dick says, drawing it out. Breathy. He’s heard this before. 

“Put him on the cot.”

“If you put me down, I  _ will _ die,” Dick tells Clark, who looks between the two of them helplessly. He can’t be held responsible. 

“He’s exaggerating.” He might not be. He fights Clark, futile, like he needs the physical contact, lets out an embarrassing whine when Clark pulls away only for it to turn into a moan when Bruce pins him to the cot. It takes Bruce’s full body weight, and then Dick isn’t fighting but brushing his lips against Bruce’s jaw, reaching his hands up to pull him closer, which in turn makes Bruce turn and give Clark an accusatory glare. 

“Why do you think I brought him back?” Clark asks, putting his hands up defensively. “I didn’t do anything. I think whatever it is probably has something to do with Poison Ivy.”

“What gave you that idea?” Dick asks, breathy, and it’s too close to flirty than sarcastic for Bruce’s comfort. His skin is too hot, feverish. A flush sits high on his cheeks, and the hair at the base of his neck is damp with sweat. He almost looks like he’s just finished a really good workout, or. 

Well. “So poison,” Bruce says. “She’s done this before.” 

“Like this?”

“Bruce,” Dick whispers, “haven’t you missed me?” Wandering hands down Bruce’s torso and over his shoulder and yes, he has, and yes, he’s gotten off one too many times thinking about Dick begging and desperate and eager. Of course he has.

“Exactly like this,” Bruce answers Clark. Even knowing what Dick might need, he’s trying to be good. He’s trying to resist it. “We need you out of this suit,” he tells Dick. “Can’t do anything with you in it.”

Clark looks like he’s about to object, bothered by Bruce’s implied suggestion. “Don’t you have an antidote?” he asks, his tone telling Bruce, you can’t do this. 

“For this one? Not if it’s a different plant. The wrong antidote could kill him. There might be residue on the suit that the computer can analyze to synthesize one, though.” 

Dick frowns against Bruce’s neck. “Really not the time to be chivalrous, B,” he says, and it’s obvious why he says it when Bruce does get him out of the tight suit, leaving him hard and straining in his skivvies. 

“Clark,” Bruce swallows. “You should go. Now.”

“No,” Dick argues, “he shouldn’t.” He sighs and reaches to touch himself, and Bruce doesn’t stop him, especially not when he leans up to kiss Bruce’s jaw again. The movements are mesmerizing to both Bruce and Clark. “You’re injured,” he reminds Bruce. His voice sounds so sweet.

“I can still fuck you,” is what Bruce wants to tell him, because it’s true, and they’ve done it injured before, but instead, perhaps because Clark is there, he says, “Irrelevant.” 

“‘S not,” Dick replies, and he’s quick when he pushes Bruce and knocks him off-balance. It’s a short enough time frame for Clark to leap in and get Dick pinned back down, but long enough to prove Dick’s point. “Besides, Bruce--it hurts.” Of course it does. It always does. He’s straining to get some relief--any relief, now, trying to make contact with Clark--and can’t. Bruce doesn’t want to admit it, but there’s a high enough possibility that he won’t be able to keep up with whatever is going through Dick’s bloodstream on his own. Not at the rate that it would take the computer to figure out what it is and synthesize an antidote, at least. He’s injured. He’s almost fifty. The limitations of his body are predictably infuriating and frustrating. And besides, he’s not particularly crazy about anyone else--even Clark--touching Dick. 

Not that he’d nominate anyone else if he had to pick, though. 

“Dick,” he says, “you’ve been following this thing. How long does it last?”

“Mm. I don’t know, exactly--it’s like a party drug. Got hit with a powder version of it at a club.”

“Sounds like something Lex Luthor would have his hands on,” Clark says, and Bruce isn’t sure why, exactly, but it pisses him off.

“Not everything has to do with you and Luthor,” he says. “And even if it had been, I would have known before sending Dick in.”

The look on Clark’s face is worth it, and Dick’s confirmation, “Not Lex,” makes it better. “What I can tell you is that it’s getting worse, and I need--”

“An antidote,” Bruce says at the same time Dick finishes, “to get fucked.” They stare at each other, frowning. “You need an antidote,” Bruce repeats.

“And I’m telling you what the antidote is.” Dick’s frustration comes with a whine at this point; he’s not begging, exactly, but Bruce recognizes it for what it is. “Listen to me.” 

He doesn’t really have a choice. He looks where Dick is still being pinned by Clark against the exam bed to the stairs to the manor proper, and he frowns. “Computer, initiate lockdown,” he says.

“Is that necessary?” Clark asks.

“Considering how embarrassing it might be if my son were to come down here for whatever reason while we do whatever it is we’re doing, yes. It is.” He pushes past Clark’s arm, shoving him with his shoulder away from Dick even though it’s not so much that he can move Clark as he wants to make him move. “Tell me what to do,” he says to Dick, who reaches up to touch his face. 

“You’re going to hate it.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t hate me.”

“I can’t.”

“I want both of you.”

“Want, or need?”

“Both.”

“I hate it.”

“I know.”

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Clark asks, sounding somewhat desperate. “I can’t just sleep with your partner, Bruce.”

Dick looks at Clark. “Do you want to?”

“That’s not fair,” Bruce says. “You don’t have to answer that.”

“What if I do answer it?” Clark asks.

“I won’t be angry,” Bruce answers. It’s only partially a lie--he’ll be angry, but not angry enough to do anything about it, not with Dick possibly dying if he doesn’t get laid. This has never been a problem for either of them before, at any point in their careers. “Maybe a little,” he amends.

“I do,” Clark says. He looks at Dick. “Is it really okay, if he’s like this?”

Like Dick hasn’t fantasized about Superman from day one. “Dick?” Bruce asks. “Are you lucid?”

“Yes, and please don’t talk about me like I’m not in the room. Clark.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.” And Dick grins at him, open and easy and trusting, and Bruce hates it and hates Clark for smiling back the same way, and hates that he’s not part of that. If you don’t trust Superman, you go to Nightwing. 

Bruce hates it even more knowing that it’s part of whatever seduction technique Dick’s taking. He might not be in his right mind after all. This has always been a contingency between the two of them, ever “just in case,” pre-negotiated and decided upon. Clark throws the equation out of whack. But at Dick’s insistence, he’ll follow. He kisses just below Dick’s ear, and Dick’s entire body shivers, leans to give Bruce better access. “Keep up,” he tells Clark before kissing again, an inch lower. 

There’s probably, Bruce thinks when Clark takes him up on the challenge, a part of Dick that has been looking for an excuse to do this for years but that none ever came up. Even if he weren’t infected by some kind of sex pollen, he thinks, Dick would probably still be moaning just as loudly, overwhelmed and thrilled that he’s getting attention from the both of them. Dick twists between them, not sure who to kiss more or when, tries to keep his hands on both of them at the same time, torn between them, until Clark says, softly, “Don’t worry about us. We’re here to take care of you, remember?”

Asshole. He means it, which makes Bruce a bigger asshole for thinking so, but the point remains. The way Clark says it gets Dick to moan out--or at least, that’s what Bruce thinks is making it happen until he notices that Clark’s hands have drifted lower, spreading Dick’s cheeks and thrusting his still-clothed cock against him. 

“Can you wait until we actually have him prepared?” Bruce snarls, and Dick gives him a hurt look.

“Bruce, you don’t have to be mean,” Dick says. He kisses Bruce, sighs into his mouth and kisses again, and again. “I want it.” Dick himself must be intoxicating, Bruce thinks. Not fair. Can’t argue against him, not like this, not when he’s working his own hand against Bruce’s cock. “Want you, too.” 

“‘M not being mean,” he mumbles. Chastised. A small part of him wonders if there was enough of the pollen on Dick’s uniform to have gotten him infected when he took it off. Maybe--would it matter that much, since this is what Dick says is the best course of action? When he looks at Clark again, he gets it, too. “Clark. There’s surgical lubricant in the second drawer.”

“I have another idea,” Clark says, and Bruce knows where he’s going, isn’t surprised to see Clark lean down or the keening noise Dick makes against his neck when Clark licks. 

It’ll be easier once Dick has come once, Bruce knows, to open him up, to spread him. “What do you mean you want me, too?” he asks Dick, who looks at him with glazed eyes. 

“Always want you,” he says.

“Need you to be more specific.”

“Both of you, then. At the same time.” Oh.

Oh. 

They will need the surgical lube, after all.

It makes him feel better that even though he’s not enough, Clark isn’t enough on his own, either. Everything eventually comes back down to Bruce’s ego. Dick’s still begging, though, wanting more and more, and even if it would be easier, for both of them, if Dick had come first, something tells Bruce that they don’t have that much time, not with the way his heart beat feels through his skin, or the heat through his cheeks. Too much, not enough. “Clark,” Bruce says, “stop.” It’s not enough. Clark gets it, comes up and pulls Dick away from Bruce to kiss him messily, distracts him for a moment while Bruce gets the lube as quickly as he can. (Again, not quick enough.) 

“I’m ready,” Dick says. “Please. Don’t. Waste time. I swear.” 

And maybe he’s not bluffing. Maybe he is as pliant as Bruce wants him. “You’re going to have to come to me,” Bruce says. There are limitations on his leg and his movement. It’ll be easier for all of them if he’s in first, if Clark is the one who has to do more bodily configuring to fuck Dick. He’s capable enough. Dick climbs him, eagerly, kisses him and groans as he holds Bruce’s cock still and inches down on it. Unbearable. Bruce knows, now, that he too has been infected, wants to thrust up into Dick but manages not to, not until Dick moves himself, and Bruce groans, moans against Dick’s mouth with each shift, and then he sees Clark, behind Dick, and feels a finger press in alongside him. Move in tandem with him, adding another. Dick arching his back, reaching for Clark, asking for more, because he’s close, he says, or Bruce thinks he says. The sensation when Clark pushes in too, trapped right against Bruce, is too much. Overwhelming. Everything is tight, too tight, and there’s friction too--different, but good--when Clark moves. It takes time to get it right, but not too much time (or maybe Bruce is just old), because it feels like it lasts hours, or just minutes. Time becomes nonspecific. Dick comes first, cries out, presses against Bruce and kisses his neck, kisses him until Bruce comes. 

Clark pulls out before he does, and then, shyly, turns away to finish himself off. “You could have continued,” Bruce says, and his voice sounds scratchy to his own ears. 

“No,” he answers. “It’s fine. I uh. Nothing against Dick, or you, but.”

“Your head was somewhere else.”

“Yes.”

“It’s okay,” Dick murmurs. “Don’t feel like I’m going to explode anymore.”

“I’m probably immune to the pollen, anyway,” Clark explains. “It would have probably taken me a lot longer to finish, anyway.” He looks suddenly awkward. “Is it always like this with you two?”

“No,” Bruce says. “Usually we make it upstairs.”

“Oh.” And the truth is, they might do it again when they get up there, but Clark doesn’t need to know that, and now that Bruce is done, is feeling less hazy himself, he’s less inclined to let Clark linger around. “I should probably--”

“Yes,” Dick answers. “Thank you. For this. And for getting me back here.”

“Well, you know,” Clark says, but he doesn’t elaborate, and disappears before either of them can make him. 

“We’ll talk about this later,” Bruce says. “We’ll need to synthesize an antidote and distribute it--”

“Bruce,” Dick says, tired. “Can we just. Go to bed?”

The medical bay of the cave is less than ideal. “I can’t carry you.”

“That’s fine,” Dick answers. “I’ll help you up the stairs, and then you can tell me all about how things were while I was gone.” 

And that’s probably the best compromise they can make, given the circumstances.


End file.
